✫ 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐈𝐧 𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐆𝐞𝐧'𝐬 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐠𝐚 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬
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She is a chatterbox
He is a listener
She is childish
He is mature
She is passionate
He is supportive
She is impatient
He is patient or is he?
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The night before Holi glows warm and golden under the Rajasthan sky. The courtyard of Rathore Palace is lit up with fairy lights, diyas flickering like tiny stars scattered across the marble floors. The air smells of sandalwood, ghee and the sweet scent of gujiyas being fried in the kitchen.
Holika Dahan has always been a grand affair in the Rathore family. Women in lehengas with bright dupattas move around, singing traditional folk songs. Children run past with sparklers in hand. The bonfire stands tall in the center of the open courtyard, decorated with cow dung cakes, wood and garlands of dried cowpea pods and sugarcane.
The royal family gathers one by one, dressed in traditional attire. Shivansh, the current Rana Sa, wears a cream-colored angrakha with a maroon border, a regal safa wrapped around his head. By his side stands Jivika, radiant in a red Rajput Poshak with a nose ring that glints in the firelight. Her presence is calm, graceful and filled with silent strength.
Varenya has worn a deep maroon lehenga with golden embroidery, her hair tied in a braid with fresh mogra flowers. Kavyansh stands beside her weaing off-white sherwani- stealing nervous glances as if Holi is a battlefield and she is the general he must outwit.
Samarth leans casually on a pillar, dressed in a crisp white kurta-pyjama, chatting with Ritika who has already found out about the so-called "bet." Nishtha walks in late, wearing a simple yellow anarkali, her curls pinned loosely, cheeks already flushed from the evening breeze. She avoids Samarth's gaze as always but he doesn't miss the curve of a smile at the edge of her lips.
Adwait walks around grinning like the cat who got the cream. He knows tomorrow will be chaos and he lives for it.
The Holika pyre is lit with Shivansh performing the rituals. Everyone folds their palms as flames rise high, symbolizing the victory of good over evil. The fire crackles, laughter rings out and elders bless the younger ones. Plates of sweets pass around. The night ends with light teasing, music and a quiet sense of excitement for what's to come.
🦋
Next day at dawn, the Palace grounds awaken with birdsong and the murmur of preparations. Everyone have woken up earlier than usual because they need to offer Gulal to Mahadev. In the heart of the palace lies a temple dedicated to Mahadev, nestled beneath an ancient banyan tree. It is here said that the first Gulal of Holi must be offered to Mahadev.
"Maa, don't apply oil in my hair." Kiyansh whines, scrunching his nose as Varenya gently parts his soft curls.
"Shh! Keep quiet and let me oil your hair properly. You are still a little kid, Kiwi. Holi colours can ruin your hair." Varenya says, her tone playful as she narrows her eyes at him.
Kiyansh pouts, clearly not enjoying the sticky feeling of the coconut oil on his scalp.
Just then, Kavyansh walks out of the closet, looking fresh and royal in a white embroidered kurta and pajama- the Rathore family's tradition for celebrating Holi.
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